


Meet Me where I Am

by HQ_Wingster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aurors, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Crossover, Established Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Harry Potter References, M/M, Obscurials (Harry Potter), Obscurus (Harry Potter), Psychological Drama, Suspense, Thriller, Wizarding World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 21:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14090391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HQ_Wingster/pseuds/HQ_Wingster
Summary: Life as an Auror wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t impossible. It was as thrilling as breaking out from theDepartment of Mysteries,and as troublesome as the paperwork that soon followed. It was as romantic as having a lover as a partner, and it stung with betrayal when even the law turned its back. It was as beautiful as waking up in a new country, a new city every day. It was as ugly as the lives thrown away, the ghost of their last impressions at the tip of a wand. It was as lonely as the curses that riddled a childhood, but it was as fulfilling now that he wasn’t alone.





	Meet Me where I Am

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the prompt compare/horror for the liveloveyoibang.  
> With compare/horror, I chose to do a Harry Potter x Yuri!!! On Ice crossover.

After twenty years of darkness, the Ministry of Magic couldn’t bear to snuff out its candles at night. The floating sticks dripped wax onto the polished floors, illuminating every corner in the main chamber. A bob, a weave, a sudden hop from a candle sent another toppling. Collided against a window, the candle fell. The flame shrunk with every meter of the decedent until it died at the bottom. Bounced off the floor and rolled under a crumpled sheet from the _Daily Prophet._ Nowadays, the _Daily Prophet_ was no thicker than the sheets used to wrap around a pastrami sandwich. Stuffed to the brim with moving cartoons and of live updates for the value of the _galleon,_ only a few stories were ever displayed between the pages.

Most of the news came around an incantation, a simple wave of a wand and an entire column of news illuminated from the tip. Updated on the minute and by the minute of live coverages and scandals that would leave a household witch on her toes as the newest updates on school tuition ruffled her slippers when she coaxed children out of bed. The age of the  _ Daily Prophet  _ was dying, as sad as it was for the busboys and for the journalists that used to crowd the Ministry of Magic at times like this. Witches and wizards, coming together to consolidate about the news and of the latest scoops. Those meetings were no more. The last one held about a week ago as an honorary goodbye for the press was shutting down. The last issues of the  _ Daily Prophet  _ were to run for about another three weeks before thrown into obscurity.

The paper that once brought people together, tore them apart, and mended them again was on its deathbed. The last of its kind, too stubborn to switch its platform until the very end. Like the beliefs of those wizards and witches that began the paper, centuries ago when words united people better than wars. However, the fight wasn’t over yet and there was still one more headline that needed to reach the paper before the end.

In the hallway of fireplaces, a green flame grew from the ashes at a particular gate. A red tinge engulfed the green before a wizard,  _ a journalist,  _ swept his cloak out from the fire and into a decrepit pan without its butter. Eyes as red as the fires stamped out with a foot, the wizard brushed floo powder off from his emerald cloak and jogged to the heart of the ministry.

His breaths, wispy and as weak as the smoke from the candles floating above his head. He took care to dodge the raining wax, and turned the rain into flowers with a simple flick of his wand. Daffodils floated down, slow like snowflakes, and created a carpet for the wizard to run on. His eyes briefly paused at the rickety cart from where fresh prints of the  _ Daily Prophet  _ would cool for a moment before flying into windows and offices around the ministry. But nowadays, picking up a paper was as optional as using it to wrap a sandwich. Or perhaps, wax paper was more appropriate. At least ink wasn’t caught in-between the teeth.

But those were complaints for another time when the journalist, Mr. Atticus Hemingway, faltered in his steps when he approached a golden statue in the middle of the entrance chamber. There, immortalized upon a marble platform, was a woman and her two babes. Their figures contorted, almost ugly to look at because of the contrasts between each individual. Chiseled together by cheap hands and twisted wands, detail-by-detail to accentuate the glamor and rigidity of a former world.  _ A Dark Age,  _ as the older folk called it when one couldn’t open a door unless they heard a safe word.

Atticus raised his wand, a faint  _ Lumos  _ at the tip. Both in memory and to observe the crass features sculpted over the children in the woman’s arms when she held them desperately at her bosom. One child dominated the other for a breast, fingers reaching out to pull away the thin garment that shielded his life and love on the other side. Forever fixed in that position, the babe could barely reach forward for a suckle. Eyes closed, the thick trickles of hair down the babe’s face hardly concealed the lightning scar on his forehead. Jagged, as if Zeus descended from his throne and drew the mark with his own bolt.

On the mother’s other arm, slightly lower and extended outwards, there laid a babe with slits for his nose. Eyes closed as well, but they didn’t exist. Not a bulge curved under the eyelid. He was simply born without the ability to see, without the ability to notice the life and love poked so closely at him. Unaware that he could simply reach out and there it was, but the babe held his lips in firm denial. A wail about to creep from his throat, forever immortalized in that position before a booming,  _ “No.”  _ Left unheard, falling upon deaf ears in this quarter of the century.

Unlike his brother, this babe was bundled with a flowing cloth. Draped down the mother’s arm, about to slip away if the statute was allowed to move. Loosely held together, about to be given away because the mother held her beloved babe so tenderly and closely that no one could rip him away from her. Not even Death could do the worse for a mother if she had a babe to protect. But even so, a silver lining from the second babe infected his mother. Silver laced up her arm, down the crook of her side, and nestled over her left breast. Where underneath, her heart under frozen time’s influence.

She stood so beautifully but inside, death came sooner than the first breath of sleep. In contrast to the intricate designs sculpted onto her babes, the mother was barren. Smooth polish blanketed over where face should’ve been. Hair hidden under the hood of her cloak but under certain lighting, bits of red and maroon could’ve been found noticed at certain angles. There was a wand sticking out from her cloak, nameless. Some sources claimed that it was willow, for a mother’s love and sacrifice. Others claimed that the woman was too foolhardy if she couldn’t remedy herself for her children.

But those people knew only a fraction of the truth. Atticus bowed his head solemnly, a wreath of lilies conjured from the tip of his wand. He laid them to rest at the mother’s feet before hiding his wand away. It had been twenty years since the legendary feat of a boy against his matchmaker, and people still forgot the details that happened seventeen years before. Of how Lily Potter gave away the greatest gift to keep her child safe from the Dark Lord and here she was, immortalized without any recognition for what she had done. If this was the world without the  _ Daily Prophet,  _ it was better left to wither and burn like the great siege that engulfed all of Britain during the height of the Dark Age.

Atticus kept the smile to himself when he turned his head, footsteps rounded the corner behind him when an Unspeakable stepped out from the shadows and into the light. Or so, the man could’ve been anybody and Atticus extended his wand. Mouthing a spell under his breath, and the Unspeakable was shielded behind his  _ Protego.  _ Then again, the protection wasn’t necessary. The wayward spell casted from Atticus was as frail and as weak as a fly, bouncing off of  _ Protego  _ with a small, spark trail. The Unspeakable crushed it under his foot and waved his shield away.

“Hemingway?” Wand poised to strike.

“It’s Atticus, but whichever you find more…” His voice trailed off for Atticus took the effort to bridge the gap between him and his Unspeakable.

Every step of his equated to a third for the Unspeakable’s. Wands pointed at each other. Atticus rolled back his sleeves, and the Unspeakable adjusted his bowler hat. Gruff mustache covering his lips, but Atticus had a trick up his sleeve if the Unspeakable struck first.

_ “Pleasing for the ears,”  _ Atticus whispered, his face inches away from the man before him. Their fronts bumped awkwardly in a macho stance, neither wizard giving up their place or backing out from this game of intimidation.

The Unspeakable only stepped away when Atticus leaned his body more than what was acceptable. Wand still pointed at Atticus, but it lowered just a bit. He and Atticus were acquaintances in the worst degree, and he was bound as the journalist’s escort for the night. The sooner Atticus had his way, the sooner they both could return to bed. Not to the same one, but forget that they knew of each other’s existence.

Atticus obliged to the arrangements, a flicker of his eyes from the traditional cloak fastened over the Unspeakable’s shoulders and to the comical bowler hat on top of his head. “Is there a name I could refer to you as?”

“Marge.” Short, simple, and oddly fitting for a man that spoke in single-word-responses.

“Lead the way, goodman.” Atticus rolled into his steps when he followed Marge. A skip between every third step because he and Marge were cut from the same cloak.

They were both busy men with their careers hitched onto their shoulders, and Marge had a taste for the past. He still used the old lifts in the ministry instead of the moving stairways built from the previous summer. These stairs, the steps moved beneath a person’s feet! What innovations a person could dream of, but nothing beat having to whistle for a lift from a dark shaft. Onwards, from the crackling distance, a lift approached an opening where Atticus and Marge could safely cross.

Atticus almost danced in his feet when Marge pulled the gated mesh aside. He chirped like a nutcase, head turning every which way when Marge pressed a simple button on the wall dial. At once, the lift lurched. Marge held onto an overhanging balance strap while Atticus dangled under his. Amazed by the leathery touch, squawking whether this very same strap was held by a prominent figure. Cornelius Fudge and his twisted regime? By Dolores Umbridge with an afternoon of tea? Or perhaps, touched from one of the golden trio that infiltrated the ministry all those years ago? Whatever the truth was, Atticus was fixed in his own fantasy before Marge shot a look that held a heavier toll than a simple  _ shut up. _

Down they went, to one of the darkest corners of the ministry. The trip would’ve been tolerable if a notepad and a quick-quill didn’t float out from Atticus’ pocket. Pages were flipped through and his quill stretched itself before dotting dashes across a line. Marge stared at the infernal devices with a squint. A brief snarl between his teeth.

“Don’t worry. I’m not documenting everything.” Atticus tore a page out from his notepad, and his quick-quill scratched itself with its feather. “The nature of your work won’t be made public if you cooperate.” A cheap smile met by a stony frown from Marge.

True to his vocation, Marge didn’t speak a word to any of Atticus’ question. Unspeakable, like the dull page on the notepad because the quick-quill glanced back and forth between Marge and Atticus, wondering what to fill the blank space with. Atticus gestured for his quill to remain patient. Good things happened to those who waited, and Atticus got his chance after minutes of nonsensical, dry humor that bled both his and Marge’s ears.

“When i was a child, there was this girl down the road who couldn’t do magic,” Atticus began, polishing his wand with a fistful of his robes. Twirled the wood between his fingers with a nostalgic smile. “Her parents were half-bloods, an even split for the magical genes to kick in. You know?” Marge didn’t even smile at that, so Atticus continued on with his tale. “So while the rest of us moved flowers and tried to be superheroes, this girl would watch us from her house. From the top of her room, she did. She was an... _ what’s the word?”  _ Atticus kept snapping his fingers until Marge mumbled,

“Obscurial.”

“That’s right! She was one of them-folk.” Atticus shuddered at the very thought, and Marge raised an eyebrow. The quick-quill mosied up and down the notepad, line after line, in the recount of Atticus’ story. It glanced up sometimes to watch how Marge’s face morphed from disbelief to disgust as Atticus gleefully continued his tale. A childhood story on his part but to Marge, it sounded like the confessional to a killing. How Atticus could keep his smile despite the grim-nature of his tale, Marge had learned to accept that not everyone was as sane as they thought themselves to be.

“She must have been scared,” Marge said. His fingers twitched when Atticus howled. Slapped his knee and everything as if this was a sitcom. Simply overjoyed that Marge was finally saying more than a world. Atticus steadied himself, the bend of a grin creeping more in certain moments than others.

“I don’t know what there was to fear. Sure, the Dark Lord was prancing around and--”

“Voldemort.” Marge enunciated the word, even, so that it’d stick to Atticus’ mind. “The more you say the other, it’s as if you want him back.”

“Wasn’t that his official--?” Again, Atticus was cut off.

If Marge was a different man, a knuckle to the face would’ve been a stark improvement for Atticus. However, as an escort, physical harm would only draw in paperwork and would easily compromise the secrecy of tonight’s meeting. Against his better judgement, Marge finished the conversation with only a tidbit of what he wanted to say.

“If you want to be technical, his name was Tom Riddle. Marvelo for a distant relative, and Tom Riddle after his father. Voldemort was an old nickname for his band of thieves, and the Dark Lord was a name every wizard learned to fear. So if you’re to refer to him by anything, don’t use the name we were taught to fear.”

_ “You _ were taught to fear,” Atticus corrected, a crooked smile hanging low over his lips. His quick-quill churned out a dozen lines in a minute. “I can say it and many more with no repercussion.”

_ For now,  _ Marge thought. The incantation for his favorite hex came to mind, and his fingers were dangerously close to his wand. But they were getting off topic, and Atticus hated it when a conversation strayed from its due-course. He had to rip out a few pages from his notepad and centered back onto the neighborhood Obscurial from his childhood. Oh, how she was a wicked person. Striped with jealousy and she used to blow up a tree if she wasn’t kept at home, smothered by her family’s touch. The children knew her as  _ Jude the Obscure,  _ a harmless nickname with no repercussion until…

“She blew herself up one time.” Said, almost as if Atticus was talking about the weather and how chilly the night was. “She tried to be like the rest of the kids, but things like that hardly work out in real life.”

“Why didn’t you help her?” Marge asked. His voice betrayed how stoically he stood in the elevator lift.

“What could I do? She was friendless.”

“You could’ve been her friend,” Marge suggested, a finger away from hexing Atticus from where he stood.

“And risk being friendless, myself?” Atticus laughed. “What kind of self-loathing is that?” His eyes darkened by fifty shades when the elevator lifted stopped at their desired floor, and that was the  _ only  _ excuse as to why Atticus wasn’t hexed up and down from where he stood. Marge bit back his tongue, eyes dead ahead when the gated mesh in front of them moved aside.

_ “Level Nine: the Department of Mysteries.”  _ A cool, woman’s voice greeted them.

Blue torches flickered down the hall, barely any warmth to the passageway when Marge led the way. The swish of his cloak fascinated Atticus when he reached for his wand.  _ Lumos  _ at the tip and it accompanied him, exposing all the fixtures and designs he couldn’t see well from the torches.

As fitting as a mystery was meant to be, the ninth level eerily resembled some of the old dungeons from Hogwarts. Sans the polished tiles because they would simply corrode away from potion spills and cracked cauldrons. But even so, it would’ve been an interesting upgrade on the headmaster’s part. Whenever Atticus glanced down, he caught sight of his reflection from every which direction.

When he and Marge passed through a door at the end of the corridor, Atticus truly believed that he was in the mouth of a black lake. The iridescent candles floating above his and Marge’s head reflected off from the tiles in a peculiar way. The floors and walls shifted and moved with the flames, with a water-like quality. Atticus’ quick-quill sketched the room to the best of its ability before Marge flicked his wand, and the quill and notepad fell to the floor with a low thud. He promptly tore out the picture and forced the items back into Atticus’ hand.

“No pictures.”

“No problem.” Atticus stuffed his belongings into his pockets, but his fingers were always near the feather of his quill when he followed Marge down a few corridors. There wasn’t much to say about the  _ Department of Mysteries,  _ despite all the mystique and flair that people wanted to know about it. It was simply a dark chamber without much meaning to it, and Atticus vaguely wondered if he would leave here, having wasted his time than anything else. But like he thought before, good things came to those who waited.

A silver-clasped vault loomed in the distance, far bigger than any vault Atticus had ever seen from Gringotts. He stepped back when Marge approached it and waved his wand in a pattern. Atticus couldn’t see what it was, but it was the correct pattern because the clasp on the vault popped. The vault’s door swung open, faster than expected considering its girth. Atticus poked his head over Marge’s shoulder.

Sitting on the floor, a plastic muzzle with a few drilled holes strapped around his mouth and jaw, was a wizard. Ashy, blonde hair plastered against the back of the neck from sweat, from fiddling around with the chains cuffed around his wrists. The wizard didn’t notice that he had company. Lost in his own world and scratching one foot with the other, he seemed rather oblivious until Marge tapped his wand against the silver vault.

Slowly but surely, teal eyes rose their attention from the floor and settled on Marge and Atticus. Curious at first, blinking slowly until those eyes narrowed on the wand that Atticus had pulled out. A dark aura of sorts outlined the captive’s figure before fading away like the wind. Stripped of his power, the wizard fell over and laid on his side while Atticus tiptoed closer. Wand at the ready, but why be serious? Atticus threw and caught his wand with ease. An unsettling smile rested over his lips when the captive before him followed the trajectory of the wand. Up and down. Unable to hold, unable to snap.

“So this is what an Auror feels like,” Atticus said, crouched down and met the teal gaze once more.  _ “Viktor.” _

“I would put that wand away if I were you.” Viktor panted between every other word.

Other than that, his appearance was relatively the same since Atticus last saw him. At court, where a collar and chain yanked Viktor out from his seat and tucked him away to a forgotten corner in the  _ Department of Mysteries.  _ How fitting it was, to meet each other again like this. With Atticus looking down and Viktor struggling to see him as an equal. No, Viktor wasn’t struggling at all. He stared at Atticus with a slant of his eyes, a smile hiding behind his muzzle.

Atticus jabbed his wand against Viktor’s cheek, gently at first. Applied pressure came later when Viktor nonchalantly shook him off. Bangs flopped over his eyes, unable to see. Or so Atticus thought until Viktor murmured that he shouldn’t try anything funny with Marge by the vault door. Atticus froze, head turned back. His gaze met Marge’s, and the Unspeakable flashed both of his hands. Atticus had ten minutes with Viktor. Any more than that, and Atticus would be locked here for the rest of the night until the day-shift.

Those prospects didn’t look favorable, but Viktor didn’t seem to mind.

In fact, he looked rather pleased that the very same man that convicted him had the chance to spend the night here. Behind a locked vault, Atticus trembled at the very thought of it. The only reason why Viktor was on good behavior was that Marge was here. Pull him out of the picture, and the ticking Obscurus in Viktor’s body would have a field day with Atticus. He had heard some of the claims.

How a wizard or witch felt drained in the Obscurus’ presence, their magical energy zapped away by a simple touch. A curse riddled down the arm that incapacitated an individual from their wand, left as a sitting duck while spells frayed the lines between victory and defeat. That was the source of Viktor’s power.  _ Magic or the ability to absorb it for his own desire.  _ So when Viktor said that it was wise to keep his wand away, Atticus really took those words to heart now.

How much magic did Viktor take from him? Atticus felt strong, reasonably healthy. Nothing  _ off  _ about him, but there was indeed something  _ off  _ because he scooted away from Viktor just as the former-Auror sat up from his spot. Viktor flicked his bangs to the side, rather amused at how Atticus was doing the work for him.

Unknowingly, Atticus opened his mind to Viktor’s influence. And now, he couldn’t shake the man out no matter how hard he tried. That teal gaze...how Atticus wished that someone would blindfold Viktor so that  _ he  _ would finally feel fear for once. How dare he get in control of the situation when Atticus had a wand, his wits, and he easily towered over Viktor. If he were another man, Atticus would’ve kicked Viktor to the side and showed him what dominance was. But no, he was a journalist. A journalist’s main mission was to seek the truth, find clarity, and bring the news to the public. Atticus had a story to write for the Thursday news, and he  _ wasn’t  _ going to let Viktor interfere with his plans.

He pointed his wand at Viktor’s face.  _ “Obscuro.” _

A blindfold fastened itself over Viktor’s eyes, and he sat where he was. Patiently listened to the sound of Atticus’ footsteps. The clunk of his shoes against the floor and how his fingers fiddled over his wand. A breath of hesitation and then, Viktor turned his head away just before Atticus reached down to caress his face.

“Speak. How do you know what I’m about to do?” Atticus pulled Viktor’s blindfold higher with the tip of his wand.

“It’s easy when you notice the patterns,” Viktor said. His fingers curled and rested by his side. Breath hitched to the back of his throat when he felt Atticus’ finger down the length of his face. Paused abruptly just over the muzzle before pulling away. The Obscurus, hunkered inside Viktor’s heart, told him everything.

How Atticus shifted his weight from one foot to another. How his wand glowed every now and then for a spell, but Atticus stopped himself. How there was a sudden change in Atticus’ magical outlet because more energy was focused onto his mind than through his hands. Atticus was thinking. Whether that was good or bad, Viktor only had prior experience to rely on.

* * *

 

How when he opened the  _ Daily Prophet  _ five months prior and saw an outline, an accusation placed against him. Written by Atticus Hemingway, the journalist vividly detailed the destruction done on an Sicilian bridge when Viktor hunted down a criminal from East Germany. How his Obscurus got out of control due to Viktor’s proximity by the water. Viktor remembered that moment all too well.

He was careless, too focused on his target to notice how dangerous he had become.

For running water had its own magical properties, and Viktor’s Obscurus was in the centre of the largest magical fuel tank of its life. It siphoned the energy, little by little. Got a taste for what it wanted, and Viktor’s control slipped. It might’ve been for a second, but that was enough time for his Obscurus to dull his senses and consume him from the inside-out. Where Viktor once stood on that bridge, he became a shadowy figure that moved with the wind.

Suddenly, he was a monster.

A familiar voice shouted out his name, but the yell was as loud as a whisper. Swept away by his Obscurus, Viktor was rendered numb. Aware of what he was doing, aware of how the concrete bridge spanned over the river was ripped from its support beams.

Muggles fled from their cars, recording the raw strength of a grown Obscurus in action. The witch Viktor was hunting stopped in her tracks and casted protective charms and conjured support structures to keep the bridge from falling. Aurors from all over the Italian Peninsula apparated onto the scene. Casting charms, one after another. A team shot curses and chains sprung from the tips of wands, grappling around Viktor’s Obscurus to subdue it. One of those chains twisted around Viktor’s arm, singed his flesh to the bare bone.

_ “Don’t hurt him!” _

When the smoke from his Obscurus cleared out of the way, Viktor saw Yuuri. Yuuri, his robes held by threads from the chaos. Yuuri, how he approached Viktor’s Obscurus slowly when it landed on the bridge. Light as a feather, and Viktor fell out from its form. Still tethered to the turbulent spirit, but his mind was partially clear.

_ “Viktor, do you hear me?” _

He wasn’t sure if Yuuri had to yell or if his voice was at a comfortable volume. He remembered Yuuri’s touch, how soothing it felt against his skin. The one touch that brought him back from the brink of destruction.

Viktor heard a murmur from his Obscurus, and he tried to push Yuuri’s hands away from him. But then, his hand moved on its own. It grabbed Yuuri by the front of his robes and lifted Yuuri into the air. Yuuri flailed.  _ Stupefy  _ struck Viktor, but he didn’t feel its effects. His Obscurus absorbed the brunt of the force and shot the spell back, square-across Yuuri’s chest. Knocked back, collided with the crumbling bridge with a shatter across his body.

Viktor tried to control his Obscurus. Mind over matter. The closer he got to subduing it, his Obscurus drew more energy from the running river. He had to get out of here, but Viktor couldn’t speak. Offensive spells flew at him, and Viktor tried to scream. Tried to alert everyone that simple parlor tricks like that had no effect on him, but his words were lost to the wind.

_ Confringo!  _ Viktor mouthed the curse and a blast emitted from his wand. It flew him out from the haze of his Obscurus, and Viktor crumbled onto the bridge. Broken, burned. He ran. Scampered on all fours for a moment before pulling up for a sprint and Yuuri defended his back.

Just as the rushing cloud of the Obscurus barreled down the bridge, Yuuri casted a shield and held it back. His feet dug into the bridge. He shouted something at Viktor. Viktor only caught the end of the message when he turned his head back. Eyes lingered at Yuuri’s gaze before the shield broke and the full fury of the Obscurus engulfed Yuuri. When Viktor ran off the bridge, he shot enough curses to make his knees tremble. His Obscurus weakened gradually. From its host not within the cloud, from as it got farther and farther away from the running river and from under Viktor’s control when he saw Yuuri crumble. The Obscurus became a wisp of what it used to be. So docile now before fading, and Viktor was in control again.

At the cost of Yuuri. His body, limp across the bridge. Mouth agape, already unconscious when healers apparated onto the scene with stretchers and potions and everything meant to keep Yuuri alive. As soon as they approached him from a five-foot radius, they immediately had to draw back. Tattooed over his skin, smoke curling up from the marks when they settled in, were the brands of an Obscurus. Soon to fade when the beast had its fill, but Yuuri was holding onto life by a thread.

* * *

 

“Ever since Italy, you’ve fallen between the cracks.” Atticus paced in front of Viktor. A slight skip to every twist and turn of his body. “Once a respected Auror, and now you’re a petty criminal.”

Viktor jerked his head. _ “Petty?” _

“You’re right, you’re not petty. You’re a monster.” Atticus stopped sharply in his tracks. “Your kind dies at the age of ten and below. Yet here you are, running around with reckless abandon. Complete disregard to public safety and…” Atticus yanked the blindfold off from Viktor’s face.  _ “Just how do you do it?” _

The sudden shift in tone, how low Atticus’ voice became, Viktor bared his teeth in response. Atticus simply laughed, a mastermind in his own head. Marge yelled that Atticus had a minute left, so the conversation had to be wrapped up neatly. With a bow and smooth wrapping, like any story covered on the  _ Daily Prophet. _

Atticus asked again. How did Viktor, a grown man, manage to tame his Obscurus for twenty-plus years and still be alive to tell the tale? What secret was there, and was it possible for other Obscurials to achieve the same thing?

“I doubt anyone would want to keep theirs,” Viktor hissed between his teeth.

“But you did,” Atticus countered. “You’re fine, you’re healthy, and you’re sane enough to talk to me after everything you’ve been through.” Just like a newspaper, Atticus avoided the truth as if it was the plague. He threw his hands up in defense when Viktor glared at him, demanding to know why Viktor was being so uncooperative with the precious seconds they had left. Time was up, and Marge just about yanked Atticus back to the vault’s door before leaving Viktor to his own devices.

Solitude fell as softly as the snow that used to blanket Viktor’s childhood. Lying on his side once more, he closed his eyes. Emptied his thoughts, there was nothing to think about in a room that offered nothing. The lights were white, blinding. Enough where Viktor was used to it now, but it bothered him for days when he first arrived. The tightness of these chains around his wrists, he used to toss and turn whenever he slept while wearing them. But nowadays, he knew a little trick.

When his Obscurus was hungry like this, it listened to him better and agreed to fade its existence for just a brief moment so that the chains would slack and Viktor slipped his wrists out. Red and bruised, but sweet relief flooded to those areas. Viktor raised his hands, flexed his fingers and grabbed at the air before laying his arms against the floor.

Sprawled out like a human snowflake, Viktor wiggled a finger beneath his muzzle and pulled it down. His tongue peeked out, tasting the faint traces of magic in the air. It curbed the hunger of his Obscurus, and it was too weak to protest at the meager portions. A bit of strength came back to Viktor’s body, mixed with the cold green beans and meat paste that he had for dinner roughly three hours ago. Just enough to keep him alive, to make the dying slow. The  _ Department of Mysteries  _ didn’t follow the same rules as the other departments. As an independent agent, Viktor could die in their care and they would simply have a Viktor 2.0, ready to take his place. Well, he wasn’t sure about that, but anything was possible at this given point.

How long had he been here? Five months?  _ Felt like a year.  _ Viktor rolled onto his stomach and planted his face against the floor. Blocked out the light, sweet relief for a moment, before he rolled over and slowly got onto his feet. The reflexes of an Auror were gone, melted away and replaced with a build that Viktor wasn’t too happy about.

It hurt to walk, a struggle to straighten his back now, and he could only manage small shuffles as he did his nightly bit of exercise. His bangs swung back and forth like the rhythm of a clock’s pendulum. Back and forth, to and fro. Enough to drive a man half-insane, but Viktor was already there.

He walked down the path of insanity long ago, and this was merely a jog past the scenery. To the right was a white corner. On the left was another white corner. Two paces back was a white corner. A u-turn yielded another white corner. The only time a corner wasn’t white was when Viktor had to use private, yet public services out in the open where a camera was probably watching him.

Since then, he was upgraded a bell that he could ring. An escort would come, walk him down a hall, and Viktor had a few minutes of freedom where he leaned awkwardly in the lavatory before washing his hands in a sink. The running water had its own magic, and Viktor’s Obscurus relished those moments with a fervor. Careful to not indulge too much, they had a strict time limit to follow. But during those last fifteen seconds, Viktor trailed his fingers across the lavatory’s walls and followed the network of magic that flowed to the sinks. Aka, the pipeline.

Every day, the pipes were in a different place, and it gave Viktor something to do. Something else than thinking, sleeping, and going through the motions of multiple physical tests a day. Every time he found a large source of magic, Viktor could almost taste freedom.

Freedom tasted like a pork cutlet bowl with a runny egg in the centre, shared with the love of his life when they snuggled by each other’s side. Sometimes, freedom tasted like the cherry chapstick Yuuri applied in the morning and usually, Viktor preferred to kiss for his share than apply chapstick onto his own lips. Those kisses, slow and tender, a little game to play before heading to the Auror’s Office for their daily or weekly assignment. Sometimes, the kisses were hot with a fervor, enough to hitch a moan and fingers tug through Viktor’s hair. And suddenly, it got too hot and he and Yuuri vaguely wished that they had a Time-Turner during moments like this. And then there were those days, where Viktor planted a quick kiss onto Yuuri’s cheek when they had to part ways because of shifts or assignments. The linger of their eyes, how they held each other’s hands or embraced for a long time, and it was rather hard to say,  _ “Goodbye.” _

Viktor never had a chance to say his farewells to Yuuri. The Unspeakables got to him first before he could get to Yuuri, five months ago in the ministry when Viktor’s fate was sealed with a simple request to get him out. Was Yuuri out there, waiting for him? Viktor didn’t know anymore. He used to think so but now, he was unsure. He was unsure if Yuuri had moved on, given up on him. No, negative thoughts got to Viktor again. He shook his head and tried to sleep.

Hands tucked under his head, and Viktor blew his bangs over his eyes. If he could tap into a magical reservoir, Viktor knew he’d have enough strength to break free. He just had to buy his time and wait.

Waiting was the hardest part.

 

 

Out from the streets and into the fire on a brisk Thursday morning, a man named Seamus appeared from one of a hundred fireplaces lined down the ministry’s boulevard of runways. Every second on the second, a new witch or wizard or individual emerged from licking, green flames. Soot dusted off from their cloaks and robes, and their wands emitted a platform of news and information at their fingertips. Seamus stared at the novelty before waving his own wand,  _ a Holly with Unicorn hair,  _ and feed of information appeared from the tip of his hand. Grasped around the striped handle, Seamus flickered through the headlines. Paused briefly at a photograph of an Obscurus, how vicious the creature was and wait...Was that a man in the middle?  _ Bloody Hell! _

A styrofoam cup of coffee floated towards Seamus’ direction, and he took a hearty gulp as he read through the article. His gait began to turn wobbly when he neared the golden statues at the heart of the ministry’s entrance chamber, and he had to sit down at a bench. Too consumed by the caffeine and media, Seamus could risk being late for a few minutes. His cup of coffee hitched between his teeth, and he tipped his head back for a good sip. Eyes glazed over by an eloquent article written by  _ Atticus Hemingway,  _ detailing every tidbit surrounding the case.

To think that an Obscurial could walk amongst the normal was... _ brave. _

Seamus didn’t know the condemned Auror, the name was left out for privacy reasons. But if the Obscurial... _ no,  _ the  _ wizard  _ had proven against the odds that magic was a tangible goal for any individual in the community. Whether fear or abandonment played a sticky end to the cards, one could wield their deck with expertise and still walk amongst the living like how they did amongst the dead. Seamus had known someone like that from Hogwarts and by hellish grace, if he was going to believe another sensational article when he didn’t know the other half of the story, he might as well turn in his wand and make a trip to the countryside to visit his Mum. Just the very thought turned him a few shades red. Quite literally. His face flushed red, then green, then yellow, and then back to red.

Did someone spike his coffee? Seamus jumped onto his feet and threw his cup away. Somewhere in the crowd of ministry workers, a healer visiting from St. Mungo’s approached Seamus with steady hands. Gloves stretched down to his fingertips as if Seamus was a medical oddity. For good measure, a mask thrown over the healer’s mouth and nose.

When he spoke, there was soothing quality to it. However, Seamus corrected the healer and told him that he was not terminally ill but yes, please solve whatever  _ this  _ was. The switching of colors migrated down Seamus’ face, crept over to his arms as well. The healer escorted Seamus to the closest lavatory so that they could have privacy, and Seamus barely looked at himself in the mirror.

“Of all days...” He hissed between his teeth. Seamus turned the faucet on and splashed water onto his face, trying to scrub the flashing colors off him.

“Important meeting?” The healer asked, a slight lilt and accent to his words. Rounded over, experienced with English. However, it wasn’t his preferred tongue. A wand poked out from his robes, and a potion flask opened on its own with a slight squeeze around the plump middle.

“I’m a physician. Sort of like a healer, but more hands-on,” Seamus added, noticing how the man beside him blinked with a tilt to his head. “I can’t be flashing colors while checking their blood pressure, you know.” A small smile to help lighten the mood, but the healer merely raised an eyebrow. Smile slipping just a bit, Seamus returned to his reflection and splashed more water onto his face. The faucet turned off on its own, and a mop of bangs pressed against his forehead.

The healer passed him a paper towel, and Seamus gave a quick thanks before patting it over his face. A sharp sting dug into his side just as a few hairs were plucked from his head. The paper towel fell away from Seamus’ hands, slowly like the first drop of rain. So too, did Seamus fall. Caught in the arms of the healer before his body stiffened, and he could barely move. His eyes, darting in every which way, screamed of betrayal when the healer rested him in a corner. A few sandy hairs were dropped into a potion flask, and an emerald flash illuminated the mouth of the flask.

The healer unbuttoned out from his St. Mungo’s uniform.  _ “It’ll just be for an hour.” _

The green robes were thrown over Seamus, turned brown to blend into the lavatory’s tiled walls and Seamus clenched his teeth. The wizard before him wore the exact the same robes he was wearing. Minus the fact that the robes were a bit baggy on the man, but he had a flask of Polyjuice potion to compensate before removing his surgical mask.

“Who...are you?” Was all Seamus could manage before his jaw locked itself, and he was stuck in a face of horror. The man before Seamus took a sip of the Polyjuice potion and morphed before his very eyes. The lookalike glanced down at his appearance, loosely folding his hands into his pockets after procuring himself Seamus’ wand. How he twirled it between his fingers before covering Seamus’ face with his St. Mungo’s uniform.

_ “Level Nine: Unspeakable, Seamus Finnigan.” _ The voice, a near perfect imitation of Seamus’ own voice, crept from between Yuuri’s teeth before he turned his head. His eyes made a glance towards a restroom mirror, and Yuuri flatted the collar of his robes before stepping out into the light.

How long has it been since he stepped into the Ministry of Magic like this? With a sense of purpose, with a clear goal ahead of him? Just five months before, Yuuri had walked as confidently as he did now while holding Viktor’s hand. Reassuring Viktor that the court would rule in his favor, that seven years of prestige would amount to something. Such encouragement turned to lies when the court did the exact opposite, and Yuuri walked through the entrance chamber alone, bruised, and broken. Tears welled in his eyes because he couldn’t do more to sway the court onto Viktor’s side. But where the Ministry of Magic failed him, Yuuri resolved to fix the issue by his own hands. Even if it marked him as a criminal, the eventual strip of his Auror’s badge if word went out of what the next hour would detail. But when it came to the rules between lovers, Yuuri had once sacrificed his everything to keep Viktor safe. And by damn, he was doing it again when he approached the elevator lifts and pressed the button for the  _ Department of Mysteries. _

Just before golden mesh came over, a hand waved them back as Atticus Hemingway entertained himself with chitchat amongst a few colleagues. All of which kept to themselves, but they forced on a smile when Atticus draped his arms over their shoulders and teased them about sporting an office job.

Yuuri kept to the back of the lift, every twitch of his fingers told him that this was his chance. With Atticus’ back facing him, Yuuri could easily carve every inch of pain that had inflicted his heart because of Atticus Whether Atticus was aware of his own demise or not, he turned his head and flashed a haughty grin towards Yuuri.

“You must be Seamus! Nice to meet and greet.” A hand stuck out, and Yuuri shook it. Grip loose while Atticus’ grip was firm. Nearly crushed his fingers until Yuuri darkened his eyes as a warning. Atticus released Yuuri, his fingers slowly trailing down the length of Yuuri’s palm before the touch was left to the past. Only to be relived by Yuuri as he took care to wipe his hand down with a handkerchief when Atticus returned his attention back onto his colleagues. Like a sheep amongst wolves, Atticus batted his eyelashes like any good journalist and served his entire self to get what he wanted. A cost of a few annoyed stares and abrupt ends to the conversation was an acceptable payment when the ministry workers left, leaving Yuuri and Atticus alone in the elevator lift.

To each their own, but Atticus seemed more interested in Yuuri. Or rather,  _ Seamus. _

“I know you.” Atticus tiptoed to the back of the elevator lift and leaned against the very same wall that Yuuri had leaned against. Had, because Yuuri stepped forward. Hiding his smile while Atticus frowned, audibility. Yes, there was a  _ tsk  _ to his tongue, and that twitched a smile somewhere on Yuuri.

“I think everyone does at some point.” Yuuri glanced down and then looked forward again, an old habit that Seamus couldn’t shake off. “They know me from school, from class. And then on the battlefield as a pyromaniac.” Swept by Seamus’ accent, Yuuri continued on his tangent for a considerable length of time before the gates opened on the ninth level.

A woman’s voice greeted them and Yuuri walked out of the lift first. Atticus followed him, like a child that had lost their way. He laced his fingers around Yuuri’s, and held their hands up as if this was a date. Whether Seamus knew Atticus prior to this moment, it didn’t matter. The look in Atticus’ eyes only spelled trouble, and  _ t-r-o-u-b-l-e _ was not part of the plan.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Anger checked at his teeth and a reasonable, but annoyed hiss shot through when Yuuri yanked his fingers out from Atticus’ hand. “You have no business to be down here.”

“Oh, I do.” Procured from his breast pocket was a parchment slip, verifying Atticus’ access for being here. “You’re my guide, my inside-man to knowing about the Obscurial.”

_ “He has a name.”  _ The brief break in character. Yuuri’s accent didn’t break through, but every intention behind his words wasn’t deaf to Atticus’ ears. For better, the journalist backed away. Suddenly aware of how this wasn’t his playground to play in. Merely a visitor and “Seamus” could easily erase his existence. Right here, right now. At this very spot because Yuuri reached for his wand,  _ not Seamus’,  _ in act of offense. No spell came to mind, but the tip of Yuuri’s wand glowed ominously in the shadows of the  _ Department of Mysteries. _

Atticus brushed Yuuri’s wand away with his own wand. Red sparks flying from the tip, and Atticus smirked with careless eyes. “If it was important, I would’ve written it down.”

_ You did.  _ Yuuri closed his eyes, steadied his breathing. Anger was a tool, not a rationale. He had to let go, even though every nerve in his body told him to kill. There were other ways to slay, more entertaining ways that didn’t splatter blood across a decent set of robes. Yuuri had to buy his time. As excruciating as it was, looking at that cocky smile painted on Atticus’ face. With these precious minutes Yuuri had left, he wore a brave face and walked forward.

An Auror’s life was never easy, but it wasn’t impossible because Yuuri was a mere hall away from Viktor. The plan fresh in his mind, Yuuri took the brunt of Atticus’ questions and his mock-laughter until a silver-clasped vault came into view. Loomed over like a giant, peered down at them like they were bugs to squish. Yuuri rummaged through his pockets and pulled out Seamus’ wand. He approached the vault and planted Seamus’ wand against the frame. The lock clicked, and the door swung open when Yuuri stepped back.

In the centre of the room, bathed under blinding lights and laying on his back, Viktor took a deep breath and sighed. His fingers melted against the floor with a gentle touch before he sat up. Bangs swept over his eyes, but he shook them out of the way. Chains back on his wrists, muzzle back over his lips. Viktor finally heard his heartbeat when his eyes fell on “Seamus”. Because behind that face and the scars that couldn’t be erased from war, there was Yuuri. Yuuri approached Viktor, swiftly because there was only one person in this room that he could return to.

Viktor tilted his head to the side when Yuuri touched his cheek. When Viktor closed his eyes, he imagined that Yuuri was standing in front of him. Not as a Seamus look-alike, but as himself. A purr crept from between Viktor’s lips. Barely audible to Yuuri’s ears, and silence to Atticus’. They had to keep these touches at a minimum if they wanted to continue this game. Yuuri knew his lines, and Viktor cleared his throat for his own. Even so, Viktor couldn’t help but smile when Yuuri untied the muzzle from around his jaw. The Obscurus curled against Viktor’s heart happily sucked on the bits of magic that Yuuri left behind through soft touches when he coaxed Viktor to stand.

With Atticus watching them with a slight part to his lips, Yuuri went through the motions of Seamus’ usual routine with Viktor. He checked Viktor’s heartbeat, compared it to his own. Fingers pressed at the base of Viktor’s jaw, Yuuri found the intrepid beats. How they sprinted under his touch, and Viktor had to hide that truth with a shy smile. Next were reflexes and Viktor struggled when he tried to touch his toes. His bones cracked audibly, and Yuuri closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again. Viktor had to bend his knees to reach and even then, his mouth twisted with a hiss and his legs shook. Yuuri checked Viktor’s eyes, slowly swinging a finger back and forth. Viktor did as he was told, his gaze lingering at elsewhere for moments at a time when he followed the finger.

How long were they to keep up this charade? How long was long enough for these touches felt like torture against Viktor’s skin. Unable to reciprocate, unable to explore the little details he missed about Yuuri because the Polyjuice potion was still in-effect, Viktor felt a stir in his chest. His wrists rattled against his chains, and Yuuri whispered that Viktor had to keep still.

_ “Please, let me hold you.”  _ Viktor’s lips barely moved for his request. His bangs covered his eyes, and he wasn’t sure if everything was going to fall apart. Breath hitched because he didn’t want to lose Yuuri again.

When the chains fell, when the last restraint loosened its hold on his body, Viktor took his first breath of air. This feeling, Viktor panted even though almost nothing was holding him back. He could turn and twist his wrist. Ached at first, but he was free. His body was his and his alone. Viktor could he bend and pull his body in any way he pleased. How buckling weights were free from his shoulders, from his mind. How his hands curled into fists, anything to keep him together when he felt like falling apart at that very moment.

Viktor blinked. More times than he usually did when he shuffled closer to Yuuri. His arms suddenly felt so heavy, lead bricks weighed on either one. But when his arms wrapped affectionately over Yuuri’s shoulders, though they weren’t his to begin with, Viktor’s fingers folded over one another. A few inches between him and Yuuri and then, their fronts touched. A trickling warmth blossomed when Viktor felt Yuuri’s heartbeats against his own. He stared so deeply into Yuuri’s eyes-- _ well, Seamus’ eyes-- _ and Viktor caught a glimpse of his reflection. How Yuuri had his eyes on no else, except for him.

Between these lingering gazes, the slight part to their lips, Yuuri folded his arms comfortably over Viktor. When was the last time they held each other like this? On the banks of Sicily? Hand in hand, twirling one another underneath the sun while sand clung to the tips of their toes. How for a moment, they simply forgot what made them different because their holds were the same. Because under that sun, Viktor was comfortable in his skin and Yuuri kissed every inch of it for him to see.

It was one of the few memories that kept Viktor sane in his solitude, and he closed his eyes.

Breath hitched over the words he couldn’t say, Viktor reminded his heart to beat again. Beat softly, beat quickly, thump to an indecipherable rhythm, but keep beating. Keep beating because...Viktor rested his chin on the crook of Yuuri’s shoulder. His fingers fumbled and grasped a portion of Yuuri’s robes, holding it tightly. Not ready to let go until Viktor opened his eyes with a flicker and caught Atticus’ lingering gaze. How he raised his wand slowly, a flair in his movements because of this deceit.

Viktor snapped his fingers and Seamus’ wand flew into his grasp. He flicked the wand, and the silver-clasp vault closed its door. Closed with a slam and Atticus trembled from the quake. Unsettled, Atticus marched forward. Painfully aware that he was outnumbered, but he could hold his wand in a duel. How many duels did Atticus fight in because the experience under his belt was child’s play compared to the lifetime of scars, riddled down Viktor’s body. How many lives had Atticus destroyed before facing the truth behind his lies, at this very moment when his wand shook on its own? Betrayed by its own master in the making.

Viktor slid Seamus’ wand back into Yuuri’s hold. A brief exchange of words. Yuuri stepped aside just as he reached his hand out for Viktor to slap. Viktor held Yuuri’s hand, a clap echoed in the room, before he pulled away and sauntered towards his challenger.

Atticus threw his entire being into every curse, a bullet headed straight to Viktor’s heart. The ache of a wrist, bangs flew and teeth clenched, and wordless magic spiraled through the air like spears from Viktor’s childhood. He heard the voices, the words, before they even touched his ears.

_ Monster!  _ The word thrown around when the only monster was the threat of a Dementor hiding under one’s bed. Fed off the darkness cradled in a childhood heart, and turned blissful dreams into a walking nightmares for a fright.

_ Freak!  _ Scrubbed off from his bed in the boy’s dormitory at school, and Viktor pulled his hair into a ponytail when he did his work. The Muggle-way. No magic involved, just determination and sweat as he poured over his notes and read through his assigned chapters for his history class. A moist sponge, asked and given to him by an elf, turned brown after the last stain was rubbed off the bed frame.

Those words, those labels, were meant to destroy him. But in the wake of everyone’s low expectations for him, Viktor pulled together his own strength and proved them wrong.

Every spell, every wound that was meant to scar him, his Obscurus took the brunt of the force. His Obscurus manifested itself as a shield, as  _ Protego,  _ and absorbed every hit meant to strike him dead. They were weak spells, hardly anything to worry about. They were just words, meant to inflict pain, but Viktor wasn’t listening to them anymore. He stopped listening to them years ago when he got his wand at the age of eleven, when he graduated from school at seventeen, and when he became Auror at twenty. Why he should he listen to them now?

Soon, Atticus ran out of words to say and he quivered behind his wand. Viktor stopped in his tracks, a few inches away from Atticus. The journalist had nowhere to run, back already against the vault door. He squished himself against the frame, only increasing his surface area when Viktor cracked his knuckles.

“Let’s...be reasonable here.” Atticus licked his lips. “I’m not the enemy.”

“Yeah, you’re a bully.” A punch had never felt more satisfying.

Atticus fell over, howled when he clutched the side of his face. His wand rolled to Viktor’s feet, and Viktor kicked it behind him. Atticus struggled to his feet, refused to be looked down upon by an Obscurial. The old spirit was back in him again. His comments, his words, felt so weak and bothersome. Atticus simply repeated all the words Viktor had grown up with. There was nothing new out from his lips until Viktor hoisted Atticus up by the collar of his robes.

Suddenly still, Atticus wrapped his hands around Viktor’s fingers. “I’m a civilian.”

“You’re an adult. You should know better.” Viktor tightened his grip before carrying Atticus with him. Yuuri pulled a small potion flask from one of his pockets and uncorked it.

The familiar, sludgy content curved a smile over Viktor’s lips. He reached up and plucked a hair or two from Atticus before dropping them into the flask. Yuuri shook it around until the Polyjuice potion was ready. They traded. Viktor swished his potion flask around while Yuuri bounded Atticus with the same chains and muzzle that brought the brink of insanity thrice over in Viktor’s mind during the past five months.

“You think you two can get away with this?” Atticus yanked at his chains, hissing between his teeth when the metal burned into his wrists. “Criminals. The both of you!” He spat.

His body twisted, Atticus smashed his chin against the floor when he toppled over. Flailed to every degree that his body could move, only damaging himself more. Viktor couldn’t tear his gaze away.

He was once in Atticus’ position, fighting for every inch of his life until he accepted that the pain wouldn’t go away until he acknowledged that it existed. Before he turned his back, Viktor reassured Atticus that someone would be coming down to the vault during lunch. If he was nice, the Unspeakable would let him out.

_ “Until then, you’ll know a fraction of what makes a monster.”  _ Viktor narrowed his eyes. He leaned on Yuuri’s shoulder support and slowly shuffled out from the vault. The door swung open when Yuuri pressed Seamus’ wand against the frame, and Viktor took a swig of his Polyjuice potion. Already aware of the story he was going to tell after his transformation.

That he was attacked in the vault, and “Seamus” graciously offered to take him back to St. Mungo’s. Where a comfortable bed, decent food, and a pillow could lull Viktor over. Before he could and Yuuri could figure out how to get his wand back from the ministry or perhaps, they could journey out of Britain and find a wandmaker fit for their services. Viktor closed his eyes, his tongue raked over his lips for a better taste when the Polyjuice potion did its work. He opened his eyes when Yuuri fastened his coat over Viktor’s shoulders, held him steady with a strong arm.

Freedom tasted like a bitter coffee, believing that it needed nothing else to keep people interested long enough.


End file.
